


Infinity Humming Like A Bee

by cuttooth



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Kissing, Lots of kissing, M/M, Multiple Pairings, Prompt Fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-28
Updated: 2020-04-02
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:29:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 8,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21994516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cuttooth/pseuds/cuttooth
Summary: "A kiss is a secret which takes the lips for the ear, a moment of infinity humming like a bee, a communion tasting of flowers, a way of breathing in a little of the heart and tasting a little of the soul with the edge of the lips."― Edmond Rostand, Cyrano de Bergerac*A series of tumblr ficlets based on kissing prompts. Characters, pairings, and tags will be updated as I add more.
Relationships: Elias Bouchard/Jonathan Sims, Martin Blackwood/Elias Bouchard, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims, Martin Blackwood/Peter Lukas
Comments: 37
Kudos: 270





	1. Admiration - Jon/Elias

It is not _love_ that tightens Elias’ chest when he sees Jon again, an invader at the heart of his ruined kingdom. The sight of him is pleasantly familiar: his dark, intense gaze, the sensitive mouth that’s twisted now with anger. And it thrills Elias to catalogue the unfamiliar as well, new scars and hair curling long by his throat, a faint limp as he walks. All the things Elias missed, these many months.

(He tried to _see_ Jon, just once. Instead he found the Archivist’s eyes looking out of his skull for a horrifying instant, startled and curious, before he blinked the vision away. He did not try again.)

It isn’t love, because how can you love a tool? A well honed weapon or a cunning implement are pleasing, but not beloved. And the Archivist is a tool, a means to an end. Elias has not forgotten that.

It isn’t _fear_ , either, that sets his pulse stuttering, though that feeling coils thick around him. He’s heard the rumors, as they approached: a man who treads the path of fear, saving those he can. A man with hungry eyes and a careful voice. A monster who kills monsters. Elias knows what Jon is capable of, and the knowledge of it feeds their greedy patron.

(Everything feeds their patron these days but none of its glory belongs to him. This world he made was not what he intended. He realized far too late that it never could have been.)

“Elias,” Jon says, and he smiles. Because it is _Elias_ in the end, and that’s right, he thinks. He is Elias for Jon, and he can admit now that nothing of him has ever been the same, from lifetime to lifetime. Elias is Jonah, but not quite, no more than James or Gregory or Stephen were.

In this heart of Beholding, Jon is magnificent. Tired and worn and glorious, thrumming through with fear. He approaches, and Elias stands to meet him. His heart is a jackhammer; his chest bursting.

(None of its glory belongs to him. Of course, of course, it all stands here before him.)

“It’s good to see you, Jon.”

_Admiration_ , he thinks. That’s what surges in his blood and quickens his breath, as Jon’s fingers lift to touch his cheek. Admiration, because Jon’s eyes hold all the fear in the world, and somehow he lives with it. Somehow he goes on. Elias, Jonah, _none_ of them have ever known how to do that. Jon’s voice is oddly soft when he says:

“It’s over. You know that, don’t you?”

(Somewhere, he feels the crude ritual unfolding in Martin Blackwood’s cunning hands, binding the doors of fear shut with silken strands, and he hopes it’s worth it, to save a world with the spider’s threads woven tighter than ever around it.)

“I know.”

(Somewhere, he feels his Detective drive a knife into the husk of his body, and there is the strangest sense of relief in it. The thing he’s feared for two centuries has happened, and…that’s it. It’s done, like lancing a boil.)

Elias can’t help laughing just a little, because really, that’s it?

That’s all it was?

He laughs, and then fits his mouth against Jon’s, a confession and a surrender. Jon’s lips are soft and startled under his, for just a moment. When he pulls away, the twist of his mouth looks more sad than angry.

“Go ahead,” Elias says. “Ask me.”

Jon studies him for a moment, and his hand on Elias’ cheek slides down to curl around his neck, and Jon’s eyes hold all the fear in the world.

“Tell me, Elias,” he says, very gently. “What are you afraid of?”

Elias tells him.


	2. In A Bar; A Bet - Jon/Martin

Sasha’s birthday comes around about a month after Martin moves into the Archives. Martin remembers it, of course, because he makes it his business to remember when people’s birthdays are, regardless of whether he’s being menaced by supernatural worm creatures. He goes out and gets her a carrot cake, because it’s her favorite, and walks a card around all the different departments to collect greetings from everyone that Sasha’s friends with. He brings it to Jon last of all, who scribbles his name hastily in the small amount of white space left, frowning.

“I’m sure you have better things to be doing with your time, Martin,” he says. “Don’t you still have the research on the Regan case to do?”

Martin doesn’t rise to the bait, because he’s well ahead on the Regan case, and also he almost _died_ in the line of duty, thank you. Martin’s not letting that one go for at _least_ as long as he’s stuck living in this musty basement. He just snaps the card shut and leaves Jon to his tapes.

Sasha is delighted with the card and the cake, and that evening they go for a drink at the Thistle, which is just around the corner from the Institute and does a curry night on Wednesdays. Tim orders the hottest vindaloo with _extra spice,_ waggling his eyebrows suggestively at the barman. The rest of them order normally and Jon magnanimously gets the first round of drinks in. A few of the Research and Artifact Storage lot pop in for a drink and some happy returns, but after a while it’s just the four of them. Martin’s well into his third flirtini, so he’s too slow to react when Tim declares:

“We should play Truth Or Dare!”

“No, we shouldn’t,” Jon says at the exact same time that Sasha says: “Oh, fun!” and really, what choice do they have at that point?

In her defense, Martin thinks afterwards, she _did_ have several rounds of tequila bought for her by well-meaning colleagues who each thought they were the first one to have the idea of shots for the birthday girl. Sasha can’t really be blamed.

It’s all simple at first. Martin truthfully answers Sasha’s question about the first person he snogged, and then Tim answers _his_ question about the weirdest place he’s ever woken up, and then…and then Tim looks at Jon and says:

“Truth or dare?”

“Truth,” Jon says firmly. Tim grins.

“If you had to pick one person from the Institute to shag, who would it be?”

Jon’s face goes crimson and he looks away.

“That’s hardly - hardly appropriate, Tim. I _am_ still your manager.”

“I’m flattered, boss, but I know it’s not me. I’d be able to tell if we had… _sexual chemistry.”_ Tim waggles his eyebrows again and Jon goes even redder.

“That’s not what I - ” he mutters, and Martin’s about to tell Tim to lay off him when Jon huffs out a breath and says:

“Fine. Dare.”

“Oh…” Tim muses, tapping a finger against his chin. His eyes slide over to meet Martin’s, glinting with mischief, and before Martin can silently plead _no, Tim,_ he continues:

“I dare you to snog Martin.”

Martin’s heart stops. _Fuck you, Stoker,_ he thinks viciously, and shoots Tim a glare that Tim answers with a smug grin. Martin curses himself for ever letting Tim drag out the truth of his inconvenient interest - _purely aesthetic interest,_ he hastens to add - in their arsehole of a boss. It’s humiliating, because Jon is stuffy and superior and really rather unpleasant at times, but he’s also broodingly good looking in a way that makes Martin’s knees weak, and his voice is probably a sin in several religions.

He is also, almost certainly, tragically straight, because that’s the sort of luck Martin tends to have. It would certainly explain the almost frantic expression on Jon’s face at Tim’s words. His mouth works soundlessly for a few moments, his face going redder and redder, and eventually Martin has to put him out of his misery.

“It’s okay!” he says. “Tim, give him another dare, that one wasn’t fair.”

“A dare’s a dare,” Tim says folding his arms and looking incredibly self-satisfied. Martin has never wanted to strangle someone more than he does right in this moment.

“Go on, Jon!” Sasha cheers, slurring just a little bit. _Not her fault,_ Martin reminds himself, _she’s been plied with tequila._ Jon hunches his shoulders up and scowls, and the expression really should not be so endearing but it reminds Martin of nothing so much as an affronted cat. Jon sighs.

“Fine,” he says. “Fine, as long as this doesn’t end up in a complaint to HR. Martin, is it okay with you?”

“Err, what? Yeah, I - yeah,” Martin says intelligently, feeling his face go hot. Tim gives him a thumbs up.

“I don’t think we have an HR department,” Sasha notes, frowning.

“Well, just don’t let it get back to Elias then,” Jon says, and shuffles down the bench seat towards Martin. Up close, his brown eyes are framed by incredibly thick lashes, and he smells faintly of some earthy, spicy scent. His Cupid’s bow is possibly the most perfect shape Martin’s ever seen. His gaze meets Martin’s, and for a moment it’s just the two of them in the world, close and intimate.

“Okay?” Jon asks in a gentle tone that Martin’s never heard before, and Martin nods, his breath catching in his throat. Then Jon is leaning in and brushing his lips against Martin’s, and Martin’s heart is hammering in his chest as their mouths move carefully together. There’s the briefest instant when he feels Jon’s mouth open under his, soft and hot, and then it’s gone, and Jon’s pulling away. Jon’s cheeks are red, and he clears his throat awkwardly, glaring at Tim.

“There,” he says. “Happy?”

“Very!” Tim says, and then mouths an extremely unsubtle _you’re welcome_ at Martin. Martin considers sliding underneath the table and army crawling his way out of this situation. His heart is still fluttering frantically behind his ribs.

“Okay Jon!” Sasha says, clapping her hands together. “You get to ask me now.”

“I, uh, I think I’ll just go for a quick cigarette,” Jon says, getting up hastily. “You - you lot keep playing, I’ll be back.”

He practically sprints out of the pub, and Martin watches the tense line of his shoulders as he goes. That inconvenient attraction is still swirling in his stomach, joined now by a sudden surge of guilt, and that terrible need he has to take care of anyone in distress. He sighs, and gets up.

“I’ll get the next round,” he says, and ignores Tim’s eloquent eyebrows as he heads towards the door.

Jon is outside, fortunately, not bolted off into the night without his coat or phone. He’s smoking a cigarette viciously, as if it’s done something to insult him, and Martin clears his throat to catch his attention. Jon’s shoulders sag minutely at the sight of him, and Martin can’t tell if that’s relief or disappointment.

“What brings you out here, Martin?” Jon asks, his tone strained. “I hope you haven’t taken up smoking?”

“Look, Jon,” Martin says. “Don’t pay any attention to Tim. It’s just a - a stupid game. He was trying to embarrass you.”

“He’s rather good at it.” Jon barks a humorless laugh. His shoulders hunch up again.

“Yeah, he is,” Martin sighs. “I’m - I’m sorry, I know it was awkward.”

“How are you doing, Martin?” Jon asks suddenly, apropos of nothing. Martin gapes, startled.

“Sorry?”

“It’s been almost a month, hasn’t it? Since you’re been staying at the Archives. I know it’s the safest place, right now, but it can’t be very…well, I never really thought to ask. How are you?”

Jon’s eyes meet his, serious and dark, and Martin can’t tear his gaze away. He feels himself flushing again, and he knows this is incredibly inappropriate, because Jon is his boss, and probably straight (although maybe not so much, judging by that kiss?) and in any case definitely not interested in Martin in that way. But Jon is also asking him _how he’s doing,_ solemn and sincere, the same tone he used when he told Martin he’d be staying in the Archives for safety, and it makes something warm bloom in Martin’s chest. Something more than just _aesthetic interest._

“I’m, umm, I’m fine,” he says. “It’s not _great_ , obviously, and I’m - I’m a bit scared. We all are. But, I’m okay.”

“That’s good,” Jon nods. “I’m not always as…observant, as I could be. So, if you need something, or - or something’s _wrong_ , just, uh, let me know, all right?”

“I - I will,” Martin says. “Thanks, Jon.”

Jon nods to him, and then stubs out his cigarette in the ashtray.

“Right,” he says, “Let’s go and get the drinks in, and plan out what _incredibly embarrassing_ thing you can ask our Mister Stoker on your next turn.”

He gives a small, sly grin that makes Martin’s stomach flip over slowly, and Martin grins in return.

“Sounds good.”


	3. In the rain; Relief - Jon/Martin

They’re somewhere south of Newcastle when the rain starts. It comes on thunderous and violent, each drop striking hard, and the air suddenly so wet it’s hard to breathe. In seconds Martin’s layers of clothes are soaked through, dragging heavy against his skin. It feels _wrong_ , and as the earth starts to slide and squish under Martin’s boots, he knows his feeling is correct.

“Buried!” he shouts to Jon, his voice muffled by the rain. He sees Jon nod tersely, his eyes shining even through the sheets of gray, greasy water; of course he already knows.

“We need to find high ground!” Jon shouts back, and Martin casts about. He can barely see more than a few feet in any direction, but they were walking through a flat, open field when the rain hit, and there hadn’t been any landmarks, except…

“That way!” he yells, hoping against hope that his memory is right. “I think there’s a tree!”

Jon nods again and then tangles his fingers with Martin’s. Martin squeezes his hand tightly. Staying together is the most important thing, when fear is pressing in around them.

They start walking. The mud is already ankle deep and getting rapidly deeper. It drags at Martin’s feet with thick, sucking sounds at every step; he’s glad his boots are well laced to mid calf. Jon’s hand grips his like a vise, and Martin grips back just as hard despite the rain numbing his fingers. Jon is a hunched shape at his side, laboring through the deepening mud, and each time he falters Martin’s heart stops.

He worries for Jon, in the Buried. More than almost any other fear. Because Jon has the weight of the world on his shoulders, the burden of knowing he _made_ this world, and all Martin’s reassurances that it wasn’t his fault won’t stop him blaming himself. Because Jon has long been dragged down by grief and guilt and misplaced responsibility, and he’s told Martin, how tempting it was in the coffin, to let himself stay buried. To give up all effort and all hope, and simply _sink_.

The mud rises past Martin’s ankles and towards his knees, and he feels Jon struggling beside him, taking each step by sheer effort of stubbornness. Martin squeezes his hand and wills him to keep going. It can’t be much further to the tree, it can’t, it -

Jon yanks his foot out of the mire, stumbles, falls forward. Martin’s grip on his hand stops him from disappearing into the lake of mud that’s shifting and roiling around them, but he goes to his knees, slumped and exhausted, and he’s sinking, slowly but visibly, in front of Martin’s eyes. Martin tugs on his hand.

“Jon!” he shouts, “Get up! Come on!”

Jon nods wearily, tries to stand, slips and lands back on his knees again. His grasp on Martin’s hand is loose now, weakening. Martin makes up his mind. He crouches down in the mud, ignoring the little voice in the back of his head that says _you could just lie down here together_ because it takes a bit more than that to make Martin Blackwood give up, thanks. He drags Jon’s hand onto his shoulder.

“Get on my back!” he orders. For an instant, Jon doesn’t respond, and then his fingers close around Martin’s shoulder, and his other hand lands on the other shoulder, and he’s pressed against Martin’s back, over his backpack. Jon’s hands link together around his neck, and his chin rests against Martin’s shoulder.

“I haven’t had a piggy back ride since I was five,” he laughs weakly, and Martin loves him so much it hurts.

“Hang on!” he shouts, then hooks his hands under Jon’s thighs, and stands up. The earth clings to him, the rain pounds down on him, trying to drive him down into the mud. He can barely breathe and barely see, but Martin Blackwood gets to his feet and slogs on. Jon is a solid weight on his back, but not one that pushes him down; it is comforting, grounding and familiar.

Even if it wasn’t, even if Jon weighed a thousand pounds, Martin wouldn’t care. If they sink, they sink together.

A gray shape looms so suddenly out of the pounding rain that Martin startles, before he realizes it’s the tree. A vast sense of relief sweeps over him, and he feels almost light on his feet, despite the mud sucking around his knees. He takes a step forward, and another, and another, until the tree is close enough to touch.

“Jon! We made it!” he yells, and lets Jon slide down from his shoulders. Both of them grasp at the tree’s rough bark, an island in a sea of choking muck. The tree isn’t difficult to climb, a sprawling beech with low slung branches and knots dotting its trunk. Despite the rain and their fatigue, they manage to get well off the ground and find a relatively comfortable nook where a main branch meets the trunk.

Martin slumps against the trunk, breathing hard, and then he meets Jon’s eyes and they both dissolve into laughter, because here they are climbing a tree like a pair of naughty kids, muddy and bedraggled and out of breath.

Here they are, together.

Impulsively, he leans across and presses a kiss to Jon’s lips. They’re cold, and wet, and more rain trickles down the inside of Martin’s collar as he leans forward. But when he sits back, Jon is smiling at him, tired but genuine, and that makes everything worth while.

The rain continues to fall around them, but Martin can already tell it’s starting to subside. The drops are no longer stinging, and the air no longer feels waterlogged. He glances down. Below them, the mud is churning and shifting, but no longer growing deeper. By tomorrow, it will likely have returned to normal, solid ground. Martin sighs with relief, and turns back to Jon.

“Should be okay by tomorrow, you think?”

“I think so, yes,” he says, then: “Thank you, Martin. I’m not sure I would have made it without you.”

Martin snorts, because honestly, Jon should know by now that Martin would go to hell and back for him, just as Jon would do for him. It’s not even a question.

“Same goes for you,” he says, and kisses Jon again.


	4. At a party - Elias/Martin

The Lukases, Elias thinks, really do throw the worst parties.

There isn’t anything wrong, per se. The food and drinks are impeccable quality, served by silent waiting staff dressed in crisp, perfect uniforms. The decor is tasteful. Everything is discreetly expensive and immaculately put together, but there’s a niggling sense that things are just slightly _off_.

It’s the sound, Elias decides at last. There’s no music, of course, and the quiet susurrus of conversation is oddly muffled in the large room. If you’re standing right beside someone you can converse normally, but from more than a few feet away, it’s difficult to hear anything clearly, as if everyone is speaking from behind panes of glass. It’s uncomfortable and off-putting, like sitting on a plane before your ears pop.

Of course the Lukas family delight in being off-putting, as Elias well knows; he’s associated with them for long enough to get used to it. That still doesn’t make it pleasant.

He snags another glass of wine from a passing server, and sips from it as he glances around. The guests tonight are the usual, predictable lot; some that he knows, and some he recognizes as not worth bothering to know. He lets his gaze roam over the crowd with disinterest, until it snags on a face he doesn’t recognize. At all. Elias frowns slightly.

The young man is standing by a potted plant, a drink clutched in one hand like a totem. He looks uncomfortable amidst the opulence of the party, or perhaps among the crowd; he stands folded in on himself, as if trying to convince the world he’s rather smaller than he is. Loneliness rolls off him in waves, but he isn’t a Lukas, Elias is quite sure of that. His face lacks the patrician cast that breed true in their line, instead being round and open, rather charming beneath dark auburn curls. This must be Peter’s new pet project, then; the one he’s been bloviating to Elias about.

Elias is…curious. He’s known Peter for a long time - since long before he was Elias Bouchard - and he’s never known the man to take an interest in someone the way he has with this Martin Blackwood. Peter feeds people to the Lonely, he doesn’t convert them. Yet he’s quite convinced that he’s going to bring this young man into the fold. It’s unusual, and that’s enough to pique Elias’ interest.

And it’s enough to _more_ than pique his interest when blue eyes suddenly flicker up to meet his, and for an instant Elias feels a faint, familiar pull. Something equal parts inquiring and fearful in that gaze, before it drops away again.

 _Ah_ , he thinks.

He doesn’t approach immediately; he has more restraint than that. Instead he has another glass of wine, and makes small talk with half a dozen people he’d rather murder, and keeps an eye on the young man as he migrates from potted plant to pillar to alcove, always keeping as far away from people as he can. Eventually, Elias’ path around the room just so happens to take him near the swooping grand staircase, beneath which Martin Blackwood is folded like a step ladder that’s not in use. He looks mildly startled as Elias approaches, and Elias once again feels that little thrill of familiarity in his eyes.

“Do you know what they call the space beneath a staircase?” Elias asks. Martin looks definitely startled at that, and shakes his head.

“No, I…never thought about it.”

“It’s called a spandrel.”

“Oh, that’s…interesting?” He looks as if he’s debating whether to flee, and Elias takes a step closer to cut off his avenue of escape.

“Not really,” Elias tells him. “What’s interesting is the human propensity to give _names_ to everything, don’t you think, Martin?”

“I, uh, I suppose?” He hesitates for a moment, then asks: “How do you know my name?”

“It’s rather my job to know things.” Elias extends a hand. “I’m Elias Bouchard. I run the Magnus Institute.”

“Ohhhh…Peter’s mentioned you.” Clearly not in a flattering light, from the tone of his voice, and Elias smiles. He leaves his hand extended, and after a few moments Martin takes it. His hand is large, and slightly clammy with nerves, and he shakes Elias’ hand with the caution of someone who’s accustomed to being told they’re not careful enough.

“Peter and I are old friends,” Elias says smoothly. “He speaks very highly of you. Seems quite convinced that he’s guiding you down the right path. But of course he would be, wouldn’t he?”

“What do you mean?”

Elias rests a hand on Martin’s upper arm. He startles a little at the contact, but doesn’t pull away, and Elias can feel the loneliness of him, old and bone deep. He can feel curiosity too, tugging at his awareness, a desire to know, and isn’t that _interesting?_ He smiles, and holds Martin’s gaze as he answers.

“Peter was born into the Lonely. He’s never lived outside it. Of course he thinks it’s the best for everyone. But for those of us who come to the powers later in life, it’s always a good idea to consider one’s options, don’t you think?”

“I - I suppose…”

Elias takes a step forward, his hand still on Martin’s arm, gently propelling him back into the shadows beneath the staircase. He can see a pink flush across Martin’s cheeks, and really, it’s so delightfully easy to tug the lonely ones in another direction. All it takes is a little tease, the promise of human connection.

“The Magnus Institute is always looking for talented individuals,” he says, still holding Martin’s gaze. Those blue eyes are very wide, quite lovely enough to sink into. “Particularly those with a curious mind, and I can tell that you have a _very_ curious mind.”

Elias lets his hand slide up to the back of Martin’s neck, stroking the skin there, and Martin shivers under the touch. The longing and loneliness are welling out of him like blood, and Elias tugs him firmly down to kiss. Martin’s lips are chapped, and his mouth opens easily to Elias, hot and wet and wanting. His hands grasp nervously at Elias’ shoulders. 

Elias lets the kiss linger a moment, two, three, and then pulls away. He squeezes the back of Martin’s neck, gentle but proprietary. Martin gives a soft little laugh.

“So are you doing this _just_ to get a rise out of Peter, or do you actually want me to join your Institute?”

Elias has to laugh himself at that, because here’s a sharp edge he hadn’t seen, through that soft fog of loneliness. It’s rare for anyone to surprise him, and it’s always delightful when they do. He’ll have to keep a closer eye on Martin Blackwood than he had expected. He drops his hand from Martin’s neck and raises his hands in surrender.

“I’ll confess, I was mostly curious to find out about Peter’s protegé. But having met you, Martin, I can say that I would very much like to…have you. At the Institute.”

Martin flushes again, and bites his lower lip. Elias can tell that he is intrigued, eager to ask more about the Institute, but holding himself back, unwilling to let Elias know how much he wants to _know_. Elias thinks that he rather likes this young man. He smiles, and fishes a card out of his pocket.

“Here,” he says. “If you decide you want to explore your options.”

Martin takes it and tucks it away, then neatly side steps Elias in a way that he probably shouldn’t be physically able to. Elias shivers as the chill of Forsaken washes momentarily over him, and then Martin is standing outside of the spandrel, hands dug into his pockets.

“I’ll…definitely think about it. Nice to meet you, Mister Bouchard.”

“Nice to meet you, Martin,” Elias says, and is a little surprised to find that it’s the truth.


	5. In the moonlight; Power - Jon/Martin

There are times when it all gets too much, in Jon’s head.

Usually it’s when he’s been overworking himself even more than usual, when he hasn’t been sleeping, when he’s been pushing and pushing himself to find some answer, some catharsis. Stretching himself so thin and exhausted that his walls crumble, and he can’t filter the background noise of Beholding anymore, a torrent of fear and knowledge and paranoia pouring through his skull, a flood that he can’t hold back.

Martin’s gotten quite good at intervening before things get that far. Jon trusts Martin to take care of him, and all it takes is a hand on the back of his neck, gentle but firm, the right tone of voice and he’ll step away from the books. Take a break and sleep, or at least lie down with Martin’s arms heavy around him, relaxed and pliant. The next day, things are better. It’s become almost routine.

Sometimes, though, it happens out of nowhere. Like tonight, when Martin walks in to find Jon pacing circles around their living room, whispering to himself, clutching a handful of his own hair so hard Martin fears he’s going to tear it out. All the lights are off, only the moon through the window sketching Jon in shades of gray.

Martin ignores the pang of fear and worry in his chest, the part of him that wants to figure out how this happened. That’s for later. First things first.

“Jon!” he says loudly, because sometimes just that is enough to snap him out of it. When Jon doesn’t react he says it again, clapping his hands together. Jon flinches reflexively at the noise, but otherwise Martin might as well not be there.

_Right_ , he thinks.

Martin takes a deep breath, and steps into the path Jon is tracing around the room. Jon makes to walk around him, and Martin grasps him by the shoulders - not hard, just firm enough to stop him in his tracks. Jon gives a little jerk against his grip, then stands in place. He’s still not looking at Martin, still whispering, and Martin can make out some of the words now. It’s a statement Martin recognizes, _Slaughter,_ he thinks, though the specifics are rarely relevant to Jon’s state.

“Jon,” Martin says, and carefully disentangles Jon’s hand from his hair, taking it in his own. Jon keeps talking, but his eyes flicker up to Martin’s for a second, red rimmed and haunted, before looking away again. Martin rubs his thumb in circles over Jon’s palm.

“Jon,” he says again, and raises Jon’s hand to his lips, presses a kiss to his knuckles. Lets his other hand slide from Jon’s shoulder up to his neck, curling gently around it. He can feel Jon’s pulse fluttering, too fast. Jon’s eyes meet his, and for an instant the litany of whispered horror falters. Martin smiles, trying to look more confident than he feels.

“Jon.” He brushes a kiss against Jon’s jaw.

“It’s okay.” Kissing the taut hollow of his cheek.

“You’re here, and I’m with you.”

He kisses Jon’s dry lips, feeling them move beneath his, the words spilling from Jon’s mouth into his own. Martin swallows the words, the fear, holds his mouth over Jon’s while his hand cups Jon’s neck, his other thumb still rubbing circles on Jon’s palm.

It takes a while, but gradually he feels Jon’s pulse slow beneath his fingers. The rigid tendons in his hand going loose, fingers curling his palm where Martin’s thumb presses. The whispers fade to a mumble, the words losing their coherency, their power, until Jon sighs softly against his mouth and goes quiet.

Martin waits for several long moments, keeping his own breath slow and even, feeling Jon sag gently against him. Eventually, he’s able to tug Jon over to the sofa, pull him down into a boneless heap, nestled against Martin’s chest. Jon’s cheek rubs against his jumper, and he says, hoarsely:

“Martin…”

“You’re here,” Martin repeats quietly. “And I’m with you. Are you okay?”

“I…yes. Yes, I think so. How long was I - ”

“A while, I think. There weren’t any lights on.” Martin briefly considers getting up to switch some on, but dismisses it. He can see Jon’s face in the moonlight, and that’s enough for now.

“Oh…I don’t - I don’t remember what happened.”

“It’s okay. We can figure it out later.”

“R-right.” Jon insinuates himself further into Martin’s arms. “I’m sorry if I worried you.”

“You always worry me,” Martin tells him, squeezing him gently. “And it’s always worth it.”

Jon shuts his eyes with a soft sigh. He’ll doze there for a little while, and then Martin will wake him up and get him to bed, and in the morning things will be better.

“Thank you, Martin,” Jon mumbles, half asleep, though there’s no need for him to thank Martin for this, not ever. Jon trusts Martin to take care of him, and Martin always will.


	6. In the moonlight; For no reason - Jon/Martin

It’s late when Jon switches off the light in his office and locks the door behind him. The Archives are dark, and quiet, except for a single pool of brightness near the stairs. Jon heads towards it. 

Martin is sitting at his desk, leaning over a notebook with pen in hand, the light from his little desk lamp casting his hair in bronze. He looks up as Jon approaches, and then squints at the clock on the wall. 

“Finally done, then?” 

“You didn’t have to stay,” Jon tells him, and he might have meant it as a gentle reproach, if he hadn’t been so happy to find Martin still here. Martin looks amused.

“No, I didn’t,” he says simply, and Jon understands. Martin didn’t have to stay. He never has to, but he does anyway, until Jon is ready to leave with him. 

Jon is glad he did, this evening. The statement he read earlier is still sitting uncomfortably in his hindbrain, curdling his thoughts into sour anxiety, and having Martin here makes things immediately better. As Martin pulls on his coat and gathers his belongings, tucking his Moleskine and phone into his satchel, Jon finds himself gravitating ever closer, drawn to the warmth and comfort of Martin’s presence. When Martin looks up to find Jon hovering right beside him, practically pressed against his shoulder, he only smiles. 

“Ready to go?”

They step out into the chill January night, and Jon links his arm into Martin’s as they start towards the Tube station, hunching his shoulders against the cold. The sky overhead is perfectly clear, pinpricked with stars, and the moon is low and round and pale. 

“It’s a blue moon tonight,” Martin comments, his breath clouding in the air. “I read it online today.”

“They’re not actually that rare,” Jon tells him. “The saying really just means  _ once or twice a year, _ when you get down to it.”

“Well,” says Martin, “It’s still a little bit special, isn’t it? Things don’t have to be rare to be worth paying attention to.”

Jon glances up at Martin’s profile, his cheeks flushed with the cold, stray curls escaping from underneath his wool hat, the moonlight washing him pale and luminous. He is suddenly overwhelmed - as he is not infrequently - by the very fact of Martin: here, and somehow  _ his. _

He stops, and tugs Martin around to face him. Martin gives him an inquisitive look, but before he can say anything, Jon stretches up on the balls of his feet and kisses him. Martin’s lips are chapped, and his nose is cold where it presses into Jon’s cheek, and it is perfect. 

“What was that for?” he asks when Jon ducks back down. Jon shrugs, and takes his arm again. 

“You’re worth paying attention to.” 

“Not rare, but a little bit special?” Martin teases, and Jon huffs in mock indignation. 

_ “Exceedingly _ rare,” he insists. “In fact, I’d say one of a kind.”

“Well, lucky you then,” says Martin, laughing. Jon squeezes his arm. 

“Lucky me,” he agrees, and holds on tight as they head towards home. 


	7. At a party - Peter/Martin

The first thing Martin notices is the silence, brittle and absolute.

The second is the fact that everyone in the room is wearing black. He is not wearing black. He is wearing teal colored trousers and a pale blue shirt and a narrow, dark blue tie, because Peter told him they were going to a party.

Well, in point if fact he hadn’t specifically said party, he’d said a _family thing,_ and it had been Martin’s foolish assumption that he meant some sort of party. Peter hadn’t said anything about Martin’s outfit when he got into the car, either, just raked gray eyes over him in a way that sent a thrill up Martin’s spine. Honestly, he could have said _something._

The third thing Martin notices is the coffin. _Of course._ Foolish assumption that Peter wouldn’t take him to a funeral, and that he wouldn’t let Martin embarrass himself, because it genuinely doesn’t occur to Peter to care about social norms. Peter _is_ wearing a suit, but it’s cream colored and tightly tailored, decidedly _not_ mourning attire.

“What the hell, Peter?” Martin hisses. Peter looks at him with mild surprise.

“What’s wrong?”

Martin’s not quite sure whether he’s more disconcerted that Peter brought him to a Lukas family funeral, or annoyed that he didn’t warn him about it. Both, he decides, are pertinent.

“Why didn’t you tell me we were going to a funeral? Oh and also, why did you _bring me to a funeral?”_

Peter shrugs.

“I thought you might not want to come, if I told you. And I wanted you to come.”

Martin’s mouth snaps shut, flabbergasted. _I wanted you to come_ is about as close as Peter could possibly get to saying _I didn’t want to come without you._ Not a momentous statement for most, perhaps, but for a servant of The One Alone it’s quite a declaration.

He opens his mouth to say something, then shuts it again. People are turning to look at them now, a crowd of dour, disapproving faces. Peter’s family. Who Peter knew would be here when he asked Martin to come. Who Peter wanted Martin standing with him in front of, at this private family affair.

Martin sighs.

“All right, you might as well introduce me, since everyone’s staring. Who, uh, passed away?”

“Great Aunt Ruth,” says Peter, and wraps an arm around his shoulder. “Awful old biddy.”

He kisses Martin’s cheek, and Martin feels his annoyance melt away. He’s used to Peter being extravagant, lavish gifts and expensive, last-minute getaways, but it’s the simple gestures of affection that are rarest from him, and that mean the most.

Still, Martin doesn’t want Peter thinking that this sort of behavior is okay. He puts on his sternest voice and says:

“Next time you want me to come to a _family thing,_ you’ll tell me what it is, okay?”

“Cross my heart,” Peter agrees cheerfully. “It’s always a funeral, though.”

“Of course it is,” Martin sighs, as they sweep towards the grim congregation of Lukases. “In that case, you can buy me a decent suit as well.”


	8. In a vehicle; Confessing feelings - Jon/Martin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Really how could I do anything else with this prompt but shamelessly crib Richard Siken's "You Are Jeff"? All quotes from that poem.

_You’re in a car with a beautiful boy._

They drive north in the rain, and that one line of poetry keeps running through Martin’s head, over and over. The car is an old VW Golf; Basira handed them the keys and told them not to come back to London until she gave the all clear, and now they’re on their way to a safehouse in the Scottish highlands.

Martin tries not to think of it as _running away together_ but he can’t stop that thought from spooling through his stupid head any more than he can stop that single line that’s on an endless loop in his consciousness.

_You’re in a car with a beautiful boy._

Jon is sitting behind the wheel, eyes steady on the road, occasionally flickering to one of the mirrors or the dash display. He drives like he’s doing his test, hands at ten and two, and Martin feels something warm and heavy in his chest when he looks across at him.

It’s not an unfamiliar feeling, but it’s one made uncomfortable by time and distance, by the fog that still lingers in the corners of his eyes. He might be out of the Lonely, but Martin knows it isn’t out of him, not entirely. Maybe it won’t ever be. But he’s feeling more now that he has in months; it hurts, like pins and needles when the blood flows back into a numb appendage.

_I really loved you, you know._

Martin recalls the hollow echo of his own voice, and it was true, in the moment. He had really loved Jon, and it wasn’t that he’d ever stopped _(how could he?)_ but that he’d forgotten how to be that person who loved so deeply.

He remembers, now. He remembers, and he aches; for the sight of Jon’s fingers careful on the wheel, his small, distracted frown as he scans the road, his quiet grumbling at the traffic and the weather. The hundred little sounds and gestures he’s not even aware of, but each one makes Martin feel warmer, makes his heart beat and his blood flow, and he’s so, so glad of the pain.

_You’re in a car with a beautiful boy, and he won’t tell you that he loves you, but he loves you._

Jon loves him. Martin knows that now, he _knows_ it, he saw it truly, clearly. _Look at me,_ Jon had said, and what Martin saw in his eyes couldn’t have been anything but real. Jon loves him: enough to follow him into the Lonely, and enough to pull Martin back out again. It’s okay, if it’s not the same kind of desperate, wanting love that Martin feels.

_(It couldn’t be, that isn’t something Martin could dare to hope for, not something he can allow himself to even think about.)_

He saw Jon’s love, and it was immense, and fierce, and more than enough. It’s so much more than enough. Jon deserves to know that Martin loves him too, present tense, all the tenses, has and does and will love him. He deserves for Martin not to be a coward about it.

“Jon,” he says. Jon’s head turns slightly towards him, not taking his eyes off the road of course, just a physical acknowledgment that he’s heard, that he’s listening.

“All right?” he asks, softly. His voice is so soft, now, so careful, as if he’s afraid of the power behind it. As if he’s afraid he might tear Martin to shreds like he did Peter, might crumble him to ash and send him scattered on the breeze. Martin thinks if Jon keeps speaking so softly to him, he might just crumble anyway. He looks at Jon’s sharp profile, the little worried line between his eyebrows, all the weight of fear and responsibility on his shoulders.

“We - we should stop soon,” he says. “You’ve been driving for hours, I can take a turn.”

“It’s fine, I’m fine,” Jon says, but he pulls over a while later into the forecourt of a service station and turns the engine off. He sits there for a moment without speaking, looking down at his hands. Martin looks at Jon’s hands as well, scarred and elegant, one finger tapping anxiously at his thigh. Looks at them, and wants, and swallows it down as those lines run through his head.

_You’re in a car with a beautiful boy, and you’re trying not to tell him that you love him._

“All right?” Martin is the one to ask this time, and Jon looks at him, gives a small smile.

“Do you want to come in or wait here?” he asks. Martin considers. The prospect of lights, noise, people, is…well, it’s a lot. It makes him anxious, makes him want to shrink down and fade away and hide. But the thought of staying here, alone, with the drizzle sifting out of the gray sky, making the world go blurry and indirect around the edges, is bad in a whole different way. There’s a small, scared part of him that thinks if he lets Jon out of his sight - if Jon lets him out of his sight - that he’ll be lost all over again. It’s ridiculous, but still -

“I’ll come. I could do with stretching my legs.”

The inside of the service station is brightly lit, inoffensive pop music jangling over the radio. There are only a handful of people in here, paying for petrol or browsing for snacks, a bored looking woman behind the counter, but Martin is far too aware of their presence, his skin prickling with it. He breathes slowly, deliberately, while Jon picks up bottled water and pre-packaged sandwiches. He can feel the tight, anxious feeling rising by the second, and as they’re standing at the till he finds himself grasping for Jon’s hand.

_(They held hands all the way home, because Jon knew the way, and his fingers tangled with Martin’s were strong and sure, his warmth bleeding into Martin’s skin, reminding him that this was real.)_

Jon glances at him, eyes dark and surprised, but he doesn’t say anything, just picks up the plastic bag with their purchases and grips Martin’s hand firmly. They walk back out to the car and he ushers Martin back into the passenger seat despite his protests that he can drive for a while. Jon doesn’t start up the engine, just slips into the driver’s seat and takes Martin’s hand in his again, holds it quietly while Martin’s heartbeat gradually returns to something resembling normal and he becomes very aware of how foolish and awkward he’s just been.

“Sorry,” he says eventually, and Jon’s fingers squeeze his gently. When Martin looks up at him, his expression is serious.

“You don’t need to be sorry for something bad happening to you.”

“Sorry,” he says again, reflexively, then winces. “I mean - well, it’s over, isn’t it? I got out. You got me out. I shouldn’t be…” He trails off miserably, unsure how to even describe what he is right now. Feeling too much and not enough, afraid of being around people and even more afraid of being alone, needles and pins and the warm weight in his chest every time he looks at Jon.

“You shouldn’t tell yourself how to be, right now,” Jon tells him, his voice gentle. “After everything, the fact that you’re here at all is - it’s a miracle.”

 _You’re in a car with a beautiful boy,_ Martin thinks, and after everything, how can he give this man any less than all of himself?

“Jon,” he says, and then: “I love you,” quick and shaky, before he can stop himself. Jon makes a small sound that’s almost wounded, and his hand tightens around Martin’s.

“Martin…” he says softly. Martin doesn’t want to look at him, with those bruised and fragile words out in the open between them. He does, though, and what he sees is what he saw before, piercing the veil of the Lonely. What he sees stops his breath in his throat, and then Jon leans towards him, slowly, so slowly, and steals that same breath from his lips.

“Oh,” says Martin when Jon stops kissing him. He lifts the hand Jon isn’t holding to his lips, touches them almost reverently, as if he could feel the kiss lingering there. Jon’s smile is tentative and careful, and it is only for Martin.

“I love you too,” says Jon, and the warmth in Martin’s chest flares, a bright and blazing thing spreading through his veins, burning away even more of the chill.

“Oh,” says Martin again, and then Jon is crawling across the center console, hissing as the parking brake jabs him in the thigh, pulling Martin into his arms and holding on. Martin thinks he might be crying, and his heart is so full it aches, but it’s good. It’s good.

_And you feel your heart taking root in your body, like you’ve discovered something you don’t even have a name for._


	9. In the snow; No reason - Jon/Martin

They’ve been in the safe house for fifteen days when it starts snowing. 

Martin is in the bedroom at the time, writing. Or rather, he’s chewing on the end of his ballpoint while he attempts to stare the words in his notebook into submission. He’s been agonizing for a good twenty minutes over a description of “warmth” that doesn’t mention the sun, because that’s old hat, and anyway you’d be hard pressed to describe Jon’s personality as sunny. He’s squinting at  _ warm as embers, waiting to be stoked to flame, _ when the door swings open. 

“It’s snowing!” Jon declares; he sounds very pleased about it. Martin turns to the window. Sure enough, it’s snowing: fat flakes falling slow and ponderous past the glass. 

“Oh!” he says. “Bit early for snow, isn’t it?” 

“Actually it’s known to snow from early October in the Highlands, though it’s not common. Back in 2012 the Cairngorms got their first snow on the twenty-eighth of September.” 

“Uh-huh, and did you just  _ know _ that?” 

“No, no,” Jon waves a dismissive hand; he really has been trying his best. “Elspeth from the shop told me the other day. She was warning me how cold it gets, if we’re planning to stay here through the winter.” 

“Oh is  _ that _ what she was saying?” Martin had caught the tail end of the conversation, and heard Elspeth - north of seventy years old and kindly as a grandmother - tell Jon to make sure he kept his young man _ nice and warm  _ up in that cottage, winking and nudging while the innuendo flew entirely over Jon’s head. Martin stifles a smile; if he lets on, Jon will never be able to look Elspeth in the eye again, and they  _ do _ need to go shopping sometimes. 

He decides to redirect the conversation before it goes any further.

“So, snow?” 

“Yes, snow!” Jon says. “It just started - it probably won’t be cold enough to stick, but I thought we could go out and take a walk while it’s falling.”

“Oh, right,” says Martin. He’s not particularly a fan of snow. And he really thinks he’s close to a breakthrough with this poem. But...Jon looks eager. Excited, even. Martin supposes he could do with stretching his legs. He sets the notebook aside and smiles: “Sounds good.”

Martin puts on an extra jumper and his windbreaker before they go out. Neither of them thought to pack gloves or hats in the rush to leave London, but Jon has a soft gray scarf tucked beneath the upturned collar of his heavy coat, his face almost disappearing into it. 

The cold hits as soon as they step outside; Martin shivers and tucks his hands into the thin pockets of his jacket. Jon frowns for a moment, the way he does when he’s solving a problem in his head, then he tugs Martin’s left hand out of his pocket, twines it with his own, and tucks both their hands into the deep pocket of his coat. 

“Much better,” he says, and starts walking. He doesn’t take them far; there’s a craggy outcrop maybe half a mile from the house that looks over the valley below, and there they stop. It’s a pretty view, with fresh snowfall dusting the landscape, though Martin would rather not be freezing his arse off. It’s worth it, though, for a pleased look on Jon’s face, his dark hair filigreed with snowflakes. 

“What’s with you?” he teases fondly, brushing the snow from Jon’s hair with the hand that isn’t trapped in his pocket. “We have snow in London - I’ve heard you complaining about it plenty of times.” 

“Well, yes, but this is  _ our _ first snow. Together. It’s worth...noticing.” Jon looks a little embarrassed, and a lot determined, and Martin loves him so much it hurts. He lets his palm settle against Jon’s cheek, and Jon leans into it, closing his eyes. 

The hand holding his tugs him forward until they’re almost flush, and Jon’s other hand goes around his neck to pull him down. They’ve done this so many times now that it feels like second nature, yet Martin doesn’t think he’ll ever lose the thrill he feels when Jon kisses him, slow and sweet. By the time they part, he doesn’t feel cold anymore. 

_ Warm as a breathless kiss beneath the first snowfall, _ he thinks. That might work. 

“You’ve just given me a line for a poem,” he says. Jon blinks, looking flustered, and smiles. 

“Oh?” he says. “What is it?”

“You’ll know when you read it,” Martin tells him. They stay there for a while longer, hands tucked together into the pocket of Jon’s coat, watching the snow. Then they go home. 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[podfic] Infinity Humming Like A Bee: in the moonlight for no reason](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24035206) by [vogelreads (vogelwrites)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vogelwrites/pseuds/vogelreads)




End file.
